The Death List mw-1

by Paul Johnson

  “Right now Chief Inspector Hardy’s got me-”

  “Never mind Hardy, you’re reporting only to me from now on. There are too many people busy building their own little empires in this team.” She gave a hollow laugh. “If you can’t beat them…Okay, let’s have it.”

  Turner nodded. “Right, guv. I was looking at the modus operandi.”

  Oaten sat back in her chair. “And?”

  “Well, it seems to me there’s some kind of message in it.” He flipped open his notebook. “Candlestick up him, sprawled over the altar, eyes removed, the quotation in the mouth…”

  “Go on.”

  “The wound to the backside suggests sexual abuse, doesn’t it?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And the naked body over the altar makes it pretty obvious that the killer doesn’t think much of the Catholic Church.”

  “What about the eyes?”

  “Well, could the priest have seen things that the killer is ashamed of or that he regards as his own?”

  “Possibly linked to the abuse carried out on him by the dead man?”

  Turner nodded. “It seems reasonable to assume that the killer knew Prendegast, or rather O’Connell. And, yeah, that he was abused by him.”

  “So we need to start collecting alibis for the night of the murder from all the choirboys and such like that we find.” Oaten smiled at him. “Good, Taff. What about the quotation in his mouth, though? How did it go again? ‘What a-’”

  “‘-mockery hath death made of thee.’ I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me about that.” Turner looked at his notes again. “Maybe the killer was just making a general point about how the priest has got his comeuppance.”

  “Or maybe there’s more to it than that.”

  Turner shrugged.

  “All right, go on working on that, but I want you to keep an eye on Simmons and Pavlou, too. And, don’t worry, I’ll keep D.C.I. Hardy off your back.”

  After he’d left, Karen Oaten pushed the newspapers from her desk and opened a file. In it were her own notes about the case. She was impressed that Taff Turner had gone the same direction as she had. But she, too, was uncertain about the quote from Webster’s The White Devil, so she’d arranged a meeting at the university later in the day with a specialist in Jacobean literature. All Oaten knew about John Webster came from the movie Shakespeare in Love-he was the teenage slimebag who had dropped a mouse down Gwyneth Paltrow’s dress, and squealed on her and the playwright. He was a nasty piece of work, but that wasn’t what was giving her butterflies in her stomach. She’d seen killings as elaborate as this before. In every case the murderer had gone on to strike again-and soon.

  It was why she’d joined the Met. What she’d told John Turner wasn’t the whole story. She wished she could forget, but every time she started on a murder case, she thought of her childhood friend Christy Baker. They’d been inseparable from primary through to senior school in St. Albans, they’d shared everything and competed against each other at netball, hockey and athletics without ever falling out. Then, one December night when they were fifteen, Christy had disappeared on her way home from Karen’s. It was only a five-minute walk, but she hadn’t made it. Her naked and mutilated body was found ten miles away in a ditch. The killer, a deliveryman, was eventually caught, but not before he’d claimed seven more victims.

  Karen Oaten didn’t think of herself as being in the job for revenge, but deep down she knew that she wanted to catch as many sick bastards as she could. She had no sympathy for them. She’d seen what Christy’s family had gone through; she’d been there herself. It was worse than anyone could imagine.

  She twitched her head and came back to the present, wondering what scenes of horror lay in store for her team in the days and weeks ahead.

  Evelyn Merton looked out of her kitchen window. The garden to the rear of the bungalow on the outskirts of Chelmsford was full of spring blooms. And so it should have been. She spent hours working in the flower beds and rock garden. Since her beloved brother, Gilbert, had died two years ago, she’d had to take on lawn duties, as well. At least they weren’t too strenuous at this time of year, and the mower with powered wheels that she’d bought was a great help. Evelyn smiled as she saw a robin engaged in noisy combat as he defended his territory from another of his kind. Nature was full of hostility as well as beauty. She’d known that throughout her life, especially after she’d started teaching primary children.

  It was so long ago, but she could remember many of the children that had passed through her hands. Of course, when she’d left college in the late fifties, everything had been very different. Although she’d grown up in the comfortable suburb of Chigwell, she chose to work in the underprivileged East End. The children of the poor were dressed in faded, patched clothes that had been handed down from older siblings. They were skinny, their faces wan. The National Health Service was gradually making a difference, but she still saw children with their legs bent by rickets and their complexions ruined by smallpox. At least, back then, they had understood discipline. The last years of her service in Bethnal Green had been marred by persistent bad behavior, particularly among the boys. She had been forced to take stern measures, even though teachers were no longer permitted to employ corporal punishment.

  Miss Merton made herself a cup of milky tea and took it into the sitting room. Rajah, her blue Persian, opened an eye as she came in then went back to sleep, purring gently. He was old now and occasionally made a mess on the carpets but, once he’d had his nose rubbed in it, he behaved himself again. Before she settled into her armchair, Evelyn looked up at the class photographs she had hung above the television. There were rows and rows of eleven-year-olds, some of them serious but many grinning cheekily at the camera. The parents were to blame. The parents and the government. There was no discipline in society anymore. If it continued like this, she thought as she turned on the TV, there would be rioting in the streets.

  The doorbell rang, provoking a sigh from Evelyn Merton. She enjoyed the morning talk shows, particularly the ones where feckless people were made to see the error of their ways.

  A youngish man was standing outside, a blue cap on his head.

  “’Mornin’,” he said in a bold way that immediately put Evelyn’s back up.

  “Can I help you?” she asked coldly.

  “Gas,” he said, smiling to reveal gleaming and unnaturally pointed white teeth. “Come to read the meter.” He looked at a clipboard. “Merton, is it?”

  “Miss Merton. Very well, follow me.” Evelyn stopped and turned as she was halfway down the hall. “Show me some identification, please.”

  The man closed the door and dropped the snib. He held the clipboard out to her. It was then that she realized he was wearing latex gloves. Surprised, she looked down at the board and took a heavy blow to her left temple.

  She grunted, and then felt herself being dragged over the carpet to the main bedroom.

  “Quiet, bitch,” the man hissed between tight lips.

  “Wha…what do you…want?” Evelyn asked. “No…no money in the house.”

  She grunted as she was pulled onto the bed. She could feel ropes being tightened around her wrists.

  “No…no,” she said, but she could hear that her voice was faint.

  Then she felt ropes on her skin. They were tightened and her legs were opened. Looking up, she realized that her wrists and ankles had been tied to the bedposts.

  “No…” she said, fear making her bladder empty.

  “Oh, she’s a dirty old woman,” the man said with a sharp laugh. “She’s going to have to lie in her own muck.” He took his hat off and opened the bag he’d been carrying.

  Evelyn Merton watched as he zipped a white plastic suit over his clothes, then put what looked like a surgical cap over his short fair hair.

  “Scream if you like, Miss Merton,” he said, emphasizing her title as if it were a swear word. “But the problem with living in a bungalow is that your neighbors aren’t
very likely to hear you, especially above the racket from your television.” He smiled. “Besides, Mrs. Smith in number thirty-three is out shopping and Mr. Humboldt in number thirty-seven has been in hospital for the past ten days. Not that you’ve bothered to visit him, have you, you poisonous old toad?”

  Evelyn started to sob, her eyes blurred by tears. She’d read often enough in the Mail about elderly women being assaulted in their own homes, but she’d never believed it would happen to her. Perhaps she could reason with the man. There was something about him that was familiar, but her throbbing head couldn’t make sense of it. Something about him…

  Her assailant sat down on the bed near her face and leaned over. “I imagine you’d like to know what’s going on, Miss Merton,” he said, his voice steady. He had a neutral accent, but to her experienced ear there was a trace of Cockney in it. “Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in.” He gave a laugh that made her blood run cold. “But first, I’m going to shut you up. I used to have to listen to you enough.” He grabbed her face, thumb and fingers pressing hard into her cheeks. She was forced to open her mouth and a cloth of some sort was stuffed into it. She panicked as she was forced to breathe through her nose, and struggled in her bonds.

  “Calm down, you old cow,” he said, the East End tones more evident. “Calm down and take your punishment like a…well, like a stinking old woman.”

  Evelyn’s mind was filled with flashes from the past. Take your punishment like a man. That had been one of her catchphrases as a teacher. In the first part of her career, she’d applied the cane liberally. Later on, she’d been forced to come up with more imaginative forms of chastisement for the boys who had threatened her authority-and it was always boys. The girls had seemed to see sense when they encountered a worthy opponent and kept their heads down. Insolent faces cascaded through her thoughts: vicious, calculating little hooligans; ne’er-do-wells who’d begun smoking before they were ten and sworn like troopers…

  “Mmm!” she said with a feeble groan. “Mmm!” She felt a blade close to her skin, slicing though her clothes.

  “Yes, Miss Merton,” the man said, this time his voice high-pitched like one of her pupils’. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  Evelyn closed her eyes as her outer and undergarments were cut apart and tugged from beneath her. No man had ever seen her entirely naked, not even Gilbert. When he had started coming to her bed not long after their mother died, she’d always kept the light off. She cringed in shame, feeling the soggy bedspread beneath her loins. Then her eyes sprang apart when she felt latex-covered fingers probe inside her.

  “Well, well,” the man said, bending over her midriff. “We all thought you were a virgin, but it seems that someone’s been here.” He gave her a lascivious grin. “Or did you use a cucumber?” Then a knowing expression spread across his smooth features. “Silly me,” he said, following her eyes to the photograph on the bedside table. “I forgot. Mr. Gilbert. I remember your brother from sports days. He used to time the races.” He laughed, a cold and pitiless sound that chilled her blood. “And call us ‘dirty little tinkers.’ You and your brother were the dirty ones, weren’t you, Miss Merton? Still, nothing wrong with keeping it in the family. I had a very close relationship with my mother, too, you know. Then again, I was adopted.”

  Suddenly the knife, a large blade that could have been a soldier’s, was in front of her eyes. She whimpered through the gag.

  “No, Miss Merton, it’s too late to say you’re sorry.” The man brought his face close to hers. “You hurt me, Miss Merton. You hurt me a lot. Do you remember?”

  She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes off his.

  “Let me help you. My name’s Leslie Dunn. Mean anything to you?”

  Evelyn closed her eyes. No, she thought desperately, it can’t be him. Not the weasel-faced Les Dunn, the boy who used to look at her in the most impudent way, as if she had no right to discipline him.

  “I can see it does. Nice to see you again.” The man laughed. “Not.” He ran his eyes over her body. “I always thought you’d look disgusting without any clothes on and I was right.”

  Then the blade was at her face again. “Let me remind you what you did to me so that you understand why I’m exacting retribution.”

  She moaned again.

  He ignored her. “You made me stand in the corner with one leg raised for a whole lesson, do you remember? Because I put my hand up at the wrong time. You made me crawl around on all fours like a dog for a day because you thought I’d made a barking noise. It wasn’t me, it was Richard Brady.” He gave another empty laugh. “He paid the price a long time ago. And you ridiculed me in front of all the kids, not once, not twice, but hundreds of times.” He stood up and started walking around the room in the heavy-footed way that Evelyn had always had. “‘Leslie Dunn,’” he said in a high-pitched voice, “‘if your parents weren’t drunken idiots, you’d know that behavior like yours is unacceptable in polite society. Leslie Dunn, if you can’t come to school with clean clothes, then don’t come at all. Leslie Dunn, your writing is like a brainless chimpanzee’s.’” He fixed his eyes on her. “And so on. You didn’t really think you could get away with treating people like that, did you, Miss Brother-fucking Merton?” He slapped her hard on the cheek. “Did you?”

  She was so terrified that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She watched as he went out of the bedroom, to return a short time later with a furry blue object dangling from one hand.

  “Aaanng!” she exclaimed, trying to scream. Rajah was thrown at her, landing on her bare chest. She could feel his blood, sticky and warm, on her skin.

  “I hate cats,” said the man she’d taught. “Now, Miss Merton, it’s time I told you what I’m going to do to you.”

  As Leslie Dunn’s words cut into her brain, Evelyn felt a wave of heat flush through her veins. She didn’t deserve this. It was years ago. She’d turned out plenty of good pupils, plenty of children who would have gone on to benefit society. No, she didn’t deserve this. She’d been a good Catholic.

  But, as the knife penetrated her, she acknowledged her sins. Cruelty, pride, hatred-not to mention what she had done with Gilbert for decades. Deep down, she knew she deserved everything she got.

  And for her there would be no absolution.

  11

  I spent the next day writing up the notes the White Devil had sent me that morning. They were chilling. I hoped for a moment that he was breaking out into fiction writing, but I had the firm feeling he wasn’t. At least this wasn’t a contemporary killing, though that didn’t make it any better for the wretched vagrant he claimed to have killed a couple of years after he’d left senior school. I’d written plenty of violent scenes in my novels, but this was worse than any of them. The man was clubbed to the ground and kicked to death with steel-capped boots. At least that hadn’t happened in any of my books.

  I picked up Lucy and took her home, helping her to make a papier-mache model of Edinburgh Castle for a project on medieval fortifications. Then I came back to my place. Sara arrived unannounced. I was rereading the text I’d sent the Devil and only just managed to clear the screen before she let herself in. I wasn’t proud of how I’d enhanced the revolting material. Writing “I felt the rib cage shatter under my boot” brought it home even more.

  “Hi, my love,” I said, getting up to kiss her. “I’ve missed you.”

  After a few moments, she pushed me away gently. “Steady on, tiger. I’ve been tramping the streets all day.”

  That meant she’d been dashing around in taxis paid for by the newspaper, but I resisted the temptation to say that. She looked worn out and pretty dejected.

  “Have you seen the news?” she asked, turning on the TV. “Bloody Jeremy’s over in Belfast covering that huge bank robbery.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I sat down beside her on the sofa. “Did you get a juicy story to cover in his place?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t say ‘juicy’ was the right word, Matt. Poor old woman.
”

  My stomach constricted. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  “Retired teacher out in Chelmsford,” Sara said, kicking off her shoes. “Fortunately the police wouldn’t let us in.” Her hand was on my arm, suddenly squeezing it hard. “Can you believe it? One of her arms was severed.”

  “What?” This time I was unable to hide my surprise.

  “Severed,” Sara repeated. “It seems the killer took it away.” She swallowed. “After he cut her throat.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered. My heart was thundering. “What was she, the victim?”

  “What do you mean?” Sara’s eyes flared. “She was a defenseless old lady.”

  “No, I mean what did she used to do?”

  Sara relaxed slightly. “Oh, I get you. She was a primary schoolteacher.”

  “In Chelmsford?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, somewhere in the East End.” Her eyes were on me. “Are you all right?”

  “Um…yes.” I picked up my mug of tea and emptied it. What game was the Devil playing with me? Or was there more than one of his kind out there?

  Sara got up. “I think we must have missed it,” she said, turning off the television. “You can be sure it’ll be on the ten o’clock news.” She headed for the bathroom.

  I booted up my computer and logged on to my e-mail program. There was a message from WDChelm. I opened it, my heart pounding.

  Matt! I read. You must be pretty pissed off with me, giving you that out-of-date stuff this morning. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You’re not the only one who can mislead his readers. Means you’ll have to rewrite the chapter using the latest facts. No doubt your girlfriend Sara will be able to help you with them. Ha! I bought myself an extra day. Don’t have to pay you the next advance yet! See if you can catch me when I do. Greetings from hell, your very own (White) Devil.

  This was getting worse and worse. Now I’d have to pick Sara’s brains about the murder. I’d try to disguise my interest by claiming it was that of a professional crime writer.